Yea Jim go home your drunk -carinfex runs out of the bar firing venom canon shots at the retreating space marine apothercary and loyalist space marine scouts hiding in the bushes- BUSH CHECK!!!

-glances up from the text he is reading and coldly glares at the tyrannid who seems to be making a lot of noise, shrugs and then goes back to his data-slate-

In the Tavern sits an old man in a purple cloak, matted with age and filth. He takes nothing to drink, but merely sits quietly. Then, when he senses that it's his turn to tell tales, he reaches for a tattered, leather-bound book, and begins to quietly read aloud.

(In the grim darkness of the 41st millennium, there is more than mere war for mortals to fear. The darkness of space hide secretive and ruinous forces which seek to subvert and subjugate the very souls of mankind. Against this insidious threat, stands the one true force for Imperial justice...the brave men of the Imperial inquisition..

(These are some of their stories...)

(In an isolated room, in a planet located on the very fringes of the Imperium, a beautiful young woman is quivering in absolute terror.)

(She's bound to a chair. She is gagged. She cannot speak, cannot move, cannot see. She has no idea how much time has passed since her abduction. Hunger claws at her stomach, thirst burns her throat. Worst of all is the uncertainty of whether she will ever see her home again.)

(Enter, Inquisitor Loathe. A cheerful looking gentleman of indeterminate age, holding a glass of water. He carefully appraises the woman, and removes the bandages covering her eyes, clucking his tongue in dismay.)

Loathe: Oh goodness, would you just look at that? You poor thing, you must be thirsty. Would you like a drink?

(Loathe gently holds the woman's lips open, and pours the liquid into her mouth.)

(cont.) Now, isn't that better! I'll assume by your sputtering gasps that you're grateful. Well, you're welcome. I must say, I do appreciate such cordiality in the young. It's becoming increasingly fashionable to be both terse, and rude. I don't do well with rude, I'm afraid.

Woman: (Speaking for the first time, her voice is raspy, and dry, as though hoarse from much screaming.) T-thank you...thank you, Sir.

Loathe: I already told you, you were welcome. I don't like repeating myself, my dear.

(He gently strokes the woman's hair.)

(Cont.) Now, wouldn't you like to know exactly why you're here? I'm certain it's been a question that's come up a time or two, during your week in our care. Well, I'm both glad to say that I can tell you, but aggrieved to tell you that the news isn't so good. My dear, you have been named a heretic. A consort of Daemonkind, and a traitor to our Emperor, long may he shield us from the horrors of the warp.

Woman: T-that's impossible. I'm not a traitor, I'm not!

Loathe: Oh? I wish I could believe you. You're so lovely, and so talented. But beauty and talent are often a conduit through which the ruinous powers reach for our souls. And I'm certain that you are tainted, young lady. By an envoy of the the Prince of Pleasure, I don't doubt!

(He begins running his hand down the length of her neck.)

(cont.) Yes, your form is pleasing to the eye. Your skin is so soft, so lovely! And your voice is practically angelic! Everything about you seems calculated to compel men into sin. Why to look at you is to feel lust...and you enjoy that, don't you my dear? Compelling men into wanton carnality? To sacrifice our souls to your foul master through means of your sex? Oh yes, I know your schemes, and you will confess.

Woman: (Eyes now wide with terror) Please, please I have no idea what you mean--

Loathe: (Suddenly begins choking the woman. His eyes are widened, and appear absolutely mad. As he speaks, flakes of spittle fly from his mouth, and strike the woman in her face.) You lying harlot! Do you think me a fool? Hmm? You dare imply that I'm lying? Confess! Confess!

(Loathe strikes the woman in the face. Blood trickles down her chin, as she stares tearfully back at the maddened Inquisitor.)

Woman: I swear I've done nothing! Please, I'm innocent!

(In response, Loathe begins to laugh.)

Loathe: Oh? You dare claim innocence? Stupid, stupid girl, none are innocent before the eyes of the Emperor. All of us carry shadows in our heart, though the the wisest amongst us confess their presence, and seek absolution through penitence. We scar ourselves to build resolve, and to remind ourselves that we are weak flesh, weak flesh, and that we must stand ever vigilant against corruption, both without and within!

(Loathe stares at the woman with a truly frightening, empty gaze.)

(cont.) But you dare claim innocence before me? Oh, you witch. You filth. I promise you. I promise you, you will suffer for such boldness, and then you will confess, and then and only then will you receive even the hope of death.

Think of that, woman. Think of it. I will return, and ask once more for your confession. Consider your answer before you claim your alleged innocence. Think of your beautiful eyes, and your lovely face. Think of that sensuous tongue, and those wonderful legs. Think of what life will mean without them!

(Loathe walks to the exit, before turning back and shouting):

(cont.) Think of it!

(He exists the chamber, leaving the woman to cry helplessly in her bonds, shivering in terror.)

(Loathe heads into a brightly lit hallway, where his attendant, Stillwind stands ready, holding a steaming cup of tea, which the inquisitor gratefully accepts.)

Stillwind: By the Emperor, Loathe. You're an absolute sadist!

Loathe: Why, thank you my friend. It's a quality in my character that I've worked hard to refine over the years.

Stillwind: With excellent results! Hmm. Poor thing, she didn't stand a chance. The Planetary Governor's secret mistress, although he tried well to hide her, didn't he?

Loathe: Tisk. Not nearly hard enough. The man's a filthy reformist, anyway. Prattling on about reconciliation with heretical worlds, and treaties with aliens! What's worse is that the people are listening to him!

Stillwind: They won't be for much longer. Not when his lover confesses to being a worshiper of chaos! Not when she names him as one! Then shall he be delivered into our tender care.

Loathe: I can hardly wait.

(Loathe checks the time.)

(cont.) Ah, well I believe I've let her stew long enough. Never enough time to enjoy your tea, eh? Back to work with me!

Stillwind: Have fun!

Loathe: Always.

(Loathe reenters the room, with a jauntiness to his step. He enjoys his work greatly. Inside, the woman sits slumped in her chair, sitting perfectly still.)

(cont.) Well, my dear have you considered your--

Woman: How did you know?

(The woman's voice now has a quality of brittle sharpness to it. Like jagged glass.)

Loathe: I'm sorry? Come again?

Woman: How did you know? Who informed? Who's been telling secrets?

Loathe: What are you talking about? Who's been telling--

(The door slams shut behind him.)

(cont.) --What the hell?

(The woman turns to face him. She smiles, slowly, seductively. And continues smiling, until the skin on her face begins to distort, until her lips begin to split from the awful force of that terrible grin. And then Loathe understands.)

Loathe: Oh, no. no-no-no-no. Stillwind. STILLWIND!

(Loathe turns and races to the door. Before he can reach it, the woman's jaw drops, and an impossibly long tongue erupts from her mouth and spears him through his shoulder. He gasps, and squeals in impossible pain, as she slowly reels him back towards herself.)

Woman: Now, Inquisitor. Let's you and I talk.

(She runs her fingers gently across his face, before her fingers extend into ghastly talons, which she slowly rakes across his face, drawing blood in thin, precise swipes.)

(Cont.) Let's you and I be completely honest.

(Loathe opens his mouth to scream for help.)

(It doesn't come in time.)

The old man closes the book and quietly turns to his audience. "The moral of the story, if there be such a thing," he says. "Is that when crafting a lie, stand guard against the truth. And when capturing a false daemon, be sure you don't catch a real one."

-the carnifex tries as hard as it can to clap with sything talons and a venom canon- bravo great story it was amazing bravo. But you didn't ask for a drink ?!

Delightfully graphic my dear fellow, Tzeentch smiles upon you... You are more than welcome to stay at my establishment as long as you like processing this information has been quite enjoyable if lengthy but, you certainly know how to weave a great tale. -raises his scythe *Verificare ex Mortem* in the air-. Perhaps, as a token of my gratitude i should tell you the story on how i managed to claim this prize -sheaths it on his back again- However, Maybe some more tales to satisfy the one true God would sate for now his neverending thirst for knowledge but, my cohorts and brothers if you really wish to know the tale of my scythe then i shall indulge in your thirsts!

A large armored figure enters into the tavern. Glowing green eyes surveyed their surroundings from underneath a hood that partially obscured a red corvus helmet. Equipped with a narthecium and a few different weapons, this individual was obviously a Space Marine apothecary that had been granted an hour of free time (can you imagine that?!). It was a rare moment of 'freedom' for the marine and the apothecary had decided to spend it at a bar. There was nothing wrong with having a drink or two. The marine would head past the crowd and find a spot to sit. Hopefully there was some reinforced booths in the back where the marine could be alone and still be able to see the crowd.

Welcome traveller if you have a tale to tell perhaps i may part with one of my special beverages that i reserve to those who entertain my deity...

The marine was silent for a moment, regarding this figure who came near the table. The glowing eyes of the visor lenses were turned directly towards him.

"I don't have many stories to tell." The Apothecary began "I have seen war and combat ever since I was an adolescent. Each war is the same to me; each outcome similar. It comes with being an embodiment of death, I suppose. There are valuable brothers lost in each conflict. I've seen determined and faithful men to the Emperor perish during battle. Though they died honorably, these are brothers who I have worked alongside. The men that are beyond repair and capacity for me to help mend, I have had to issue the Emperor's Mercy. However, there is a small amount of hope, I suppose. In a way, each marine who has died in service, will live on in a sense. They will do so in the new generations of successful neophytes."

The apothecary would lift off the corvus helmet, revealing a scarred up face and short black hair. His face was finer-featured than some of his brethren. If it wasn't for the gruesome scars on his face, he'd probably be considered somewhat handsome.

"My designation is Apothecary Corva. And you?"

Hmmm -he raises his eyes away from his data-slate- I'm known by many names mutant... However, my terran name would be Xelioks, Sorcerer Xelioks of the Thousand Sons. My tale is of heresy and bloodshed some of which will warp your mind and show you monsters that you couldn't even concieve. But, i digress if you really want to know of me then i shall allow my tongue to flicker with life as knowledge is always the greatest power one can acquire...

-he clears his throat and makes a hoarse rasping sound as he does it and picks up a data-slate-

I am Xelioks, Sorcerer of the Thousand Sons.

I was born from the unholy consummation of the immaterium and my bastard parents. From a night of soulless debauchery i was made flesh! My mother in her screams praising the holy Tzeentch gave her life in order for me to live and my father sacrificing his own life with a ritualistic dagger, their psychic energies augmenting my own. I, as an infant laying on the floor of my parents blood a sorcerer by the name Delakarn raised me from the bloodied ground and sired me as his apprentice.

Delakarn raised me and honed my psychic ability, the power of the warp flowed naturally through me and taught me in the changer of ways.

When i was the human age of 16 i was implanted with the gene-seed of the Thousand Sons and given my own mantle "The Harbinger of Thought". Upon my blue and yellow trim breastplate marked many litanies and sacred rites of Tzeentch, blue texts morphing and changing continuously such as the will of the Fateweaver.

I stood with Delakarn during the Black Crusade we killed many of the false emperors subjects. A force commander of the Ultramarines by the name of Zael Pureheart was struck down by my Doombolts, I saw his armor crackle with psychic energy and from there I conjured chains from the abyss shackling him and making him slump to one knee. I look down into his bloodied eyes, his teeth gritted barking at me like some hive world dog. I slowly taking my gauntlet off I took my index and middle fingers and plunged them into his eyes while saying "You shall suffer not the false sight that has been gifted by your corpse emperor, I shall show you the true nature of this universe!" With that psychic energy coursed through my veins and shot directly into where my fingers where in his eyes as grey matter exploded onto my breast plate I chuckled softly, bemused by the fact that a pitiless dog such as him be graced so favourably by the master. With that i took his spine and crafted it into a curved blade, a scythe to call my own. Blessed by the Fateweaver ever-changing runes grafted all up the pole and on the blade itself. With this glorious birthing of a true weapon of chaos i christened it "Verificare ex mortem"

After the crusade i left the Thousand Sons in search of a new Warband which is where i found the Red Corsairs. For several years i worked as one of the sorcerers in the coven, advisers to Huron Blackheart Warmaster of the Red Corsairs. There my life was less chaotic i studied the ancient texts of many Xenos and Heretical alike raided from worlds the Corsairs decided to pillage. I stayed with them for 50 years as i grew in power and helped Huron plan his upcoming raids till eventually i tired of this existence and set up the Flayed Corpse in reverence to how i killed Zael Pureheart those many eons ago.

Now, i wait here on New Badab listening, prowling in the shadows waiting for a new warband to take me on as their Sorcerer Lord so that i may guide and council my new warmaster and crush his enemies with bolts of warp and fire!

PRAISE TZEENTCH, CHANGER OF WAYS, THE FATEWEAVER THE ONLY TRUTH!

-he looks up from his data-slate with a blank stare from his twitching blue pupiless eyes his heavy rebreather cranking sounds of tech-heresy-

A Sons of Guilliman Devastator Seargent (see Avatar to the left) enters the Tavern, sitting down at the bar, placing his Heavy Bolter on the top of it, right to him, blocking a seat with it's enormous size.

"My local Apothecary told me you like stories, eh?" The Devastator says, looking at the Barkeep.

"Well, let me tell you of the horrors that the Daemons brought upon us." He started and closed his eyes beneath his helmet, dwelling in his memories.

"We were quickly deployed after we arrived within a few hours of an emergency call of a nearby Imperial World. They did not even know what hit them so incapable the Planetary Defense Force was... But as our oath to Guilliman and the Imperium we shall there where the enemies of the Imperium are... And so it shall be." He takes a deep breath, facing the horrors of his memories.

"The moment the Drop Pods and Thunderhawks reached the Deployment zone we found ourselves opposed straight out against an army of heretics, Millions of Cultists, Thousands of Vehicles, Hundreds of Hereteks, Dozens of Heretic Astartes.... and one Daemon Prince...." He remembers his face and appearance very much.

"We were two companies, the third and the fourth, I belonging to the Third. The Fourth was deployed along our side, the captain hurrying to the Governor to assume control of the local forces and establish proper defense and organization among the local troops while the Captain of the third assumed control of us."

"It was a harsh battle, Cultists stormed in the thousands against us while the Chaos Space Marines were laughing at their failure and no matter how many fell, it seemed there were already 2 behind him to replace him. My Heavy Bolter struck down at least a thousand of them before the flood stopped, but instead of gaining some peace we had to face it was nothing but a ruse, a mere distraction." The voice of the Devastator became darker and filled with hatred.

"Fifty Khorne Berserkers from right and left closed down onto us, coming like out of nowhere! They slaughtered through half of each company until they eventually were stopped. We shot arms, heads and legs off, but whatever limb was left still worked for another minute and tried to kill and destroy! And once we overcame that, the PDF finally was mobilized and got out of their fortress to support us, not just was it rather late as we were all fighting for hours, low on ammo, etc. But also the main onslaught of the Heretical Astartes has begun, a hundred man strong, aided by their Daemon Prince.... My Brothers died right and left to me, falling victim to their Bolter Fire, in vengeance I shot down 7 of them in a salvo. Nonetheless my effort has not made much of a difference..." The Devastator clinched his fists.

"My whole squad died, including my Seargent which Bolter I still carry today, the Daemon Prince with his Daemonsword decapitated the Seargents of the Third Company all by himself, my Fire being useless against him, until the captain of the fourth company finally came and had slain the Daemon together with the captain of the third, both wearing holy Powerswords which were given to us as a gift by the Ronins... And Iam still grateful for it until today. And that, was the day were I became a Devastator Seargent of the 3rd Company of the Sons of Guilliman. Are you satisfied with those horrors, barkeep?" He asked, narrowing his eyes upon the Sorcerer beneath his helmet.

"Surprise me with a drink." The nameless Devastator concluded.